


Lay Back, Love

by gingersprite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Awkward Flirting, Bathing/Washing, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Smut, Inappropriate Use of Winterfell Hot Springs, Past Torture, Sickfic, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 16:52:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19155124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingersprite/pseuds/gingersprite
Summary: Theon is sick, so Sansa takes it upon herself to help him feel better; her methods are extremely thorough.





	Lay Back, Love

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully it isn't too evident, but I've never written smut before. Seriously, I was blushing like a fool the entire time! If their flirting feels awkward, please just chalk that up to the both of them being a couple of dorks who are still learning how to be people.

There was a chill in the air, and it had settled right in Theon’s chest. Despite the rather miraculous recovery he had made in the years since Ramsay’s torture, he still suffered from physical pains and a weak constitution. Given that Maester Wolkan thought of him as something of a medical marvel, Theon supposed he should consider himself lucky, though the arrogant boy he had been would have chafed at the limitations his health placed on him.

In an unexpected turn of events, Theon found he was immensely grateful that the old Bolton maester was responsible for his health. Wolkan had been the one who tended to him after the worst of Ramsay’s tortures, and as such he was intimately familiar with the battlefield that was Theon’s body. Reek had hated and feared the maester in equal measures, with his painful salves and invading hands; for a body that had been as ravaged as his, even the kindest touch could feel like a further violation.

Now that Theon’s mind was clearer, he understood that Ramsay had also victimized the household staff, who had all been under his thumb in some way or another. Ultimately, Theon found he couldn’t bring himself to begrudge Wolkan for not standing up to Ramsay; and, frankly, he didn’t relish the idea of having to introduce a new maester to the project that was ‘ensuring Lord Greyjoy’s health’.

Despite taking preventative measures, Theon was still prone to catching ill, and even a moderate fever could see him bedridden. Only some of this would be due to the actual sickness: Sansa’s style of caretaking was surprisingly aggressive. She had simply lost too many people, including nearly Theon himself after the battle in the Godswood, not to do everything in her power to keep him healthy.

This led to her now ushering Theon out of the maester’s work room, having been the one to bring him there in the first place after hearing the deep rattling cough that had taken up residence in his chest. Theon had made some protests, but they were halfhearted at best; the cough had made it difficult to sleep the night before, and he found he was too worn out to put up a front. He took comfort in the knowledge that Sansa worried over him out of love, not because she thought him weak. Though Theon himself was disinclined to agree, she continued to insist that he was the bravest man she knew.

The bravest, and also the stupidest.

“I told you not to overdo it running drills with Brienne!” Sansa scolded him as they walked, arm-in-arm, in an attempt to provide Theon with some support while still maintaining some semblance of dignity. He would have protested, except he knew she was right.

“Someone has to ensure there are proper archers in this castle, Your Grace. Besides, who could resist the chance to work under Ser Brienne? Your knight truly is something else, I can see why Jon’s wildling is so infatuated with her,” Theon grinned, certain that said knight was rolling her eyes at his words. He couldn’t see her expression from her usual position behind them guarding her queen, but most of what he said seemed to elicit that reaction from Brienne.

Theon and Brienne had a complicated relationship, to put it simply. As the Hand of the Queen and the captain of the Queensguard, they were forced to spend a lot of time together, and their frequent bickering made it clear that Brienne did not like him. Theon supposed that he could hardly blame her; Brienne was utterly devoted to the Stark sisters, and his past betrayal would understandably have made the knight wary of him. When Theon had broached the topic to Sansa, however, she’d laughed and assured him that Brienne’s prickly demeanor towards him had nothing to do with his past and everything to do with his regular evening trips to the queen’s bedchamber. Brienne was just protective of the young woman she’d come to consider a little sister, and even if she didn’t show it, that protective nature extended to the man Sansa loved.

Sure enough, when his fever-weakened legs caused him to stumble, Brienne darted forward to steady him. Looking up at the knight and seeing a hint of concern hidden under her usual disapproval, Theon briefly felt a pang of guilt for how his past self would certainly have judged her for her looks, rather than her loyalty and honor. 

If the sudden furrow between her brows was an indicator, Theon must have looked worse than he’d thought.

“Shall I escort you both to your chambers, Your Grace?” Brienne asked Sansa over his head, not a hint of judgement in her tone. Theon expected Sansa to flush at the blatant acknowledgment of their supposedly secret relationship, but instead she gave him a once-over and seemed to be considering something.

“No, I think a change of plans is in order,” she said, mind made up. “The maester did suggest that a hot soak might help. The springs should be empty this time of day.” Theon knew that last part was directed at him, as a rebuttal to the argument he’d been prepared for. In the past he had made it clear that he didn’t feel comfortable putting his scars on display like that, even just the ones on his arms and chest. Now, though, he felt dreadful enough that he couldn’t bring himself to put up a fuss.

“If you insist, my queen,” he huffed, surrendering. “Lead us on, Ser Brienne!”

This time Theon had a clear view of Brienne’s long-suffering glare.

\---

Winterfell’s hot springs were separated with dividers for privacy and were accessed by a secluded corridor, two facts which Theon had never been more grateful of. The walk from Maester Wolkan’s rooms had left him winded and leaning more heavily on Brienne than he cared to admit; ever the honorable knight, she said nothing.

After ensuring that their chosen spring was vacant, Brienne turned to Sansa.

“I’ll wait out here to escort you back to your rooms once you’ve finished, Your Grace.” The additional promise to make sure no one else came in was implied. Sansa smiled at her knight graciously.

“Thank you, Brienne, we won’t be long.” Brienne nodded and seemed ready to let them go, but then unexpectedly turned to Theon.

“Feel better, Lord Greyjoy.” She turned and left before he could say anything back, closing the door behind her. Sansa laughed at his dumbfounded expression.

“‘Brienne hates me, Sans, she can’t stand me, Sans,’” she teased. He tried to act all affronted, but he had to admit it; she did a pretty good impression of him. The laugh he let out ended up being a mistake, though, as his wheezy breath combined with the steam coming off the hot spring made him rather lightheaded. Sansa quickly ushered him to a nearby bench before he could swoon on her.

Once the spots cleared from his eyes, Theon saw Sansa kneeling before him, heedless of dirtying her fine dress on the stone floor. Her lips were pursed like she was trying to keep from scolding him, her expression a confusing mix of frustration and worry. Uncomfortable, he tried to look away, but Sansa held his gaze to hers with a gentle hand on his chin.

“Let me take care of you, Theon. Please?” She said it like a question, giving him the choice, as if he could ever turn away her touch.

“As you wish,” he murmured with a shrug. “It isn’t pretty-” Sansa cut him off with a soft press of their lips.

“I want to. It’s you.” She said simply, as if that was enough. He nodded, and with her help set about stripping him of his doublet. As she undid the lacings of his shirt to reveal the skin underneath, she let her fingers trail along the map of scar tissue she had become accustomed to reading. There was the hated Bolton ‘X’ on each arm, and the whip marks that wrapped across his back and around his shoulders; the tell-tale patchy scars left by flaying, and the puckered white space where his right nipple had been. Though she tried to keep her touch light, he still winced.

“Sorry,” she murmured, quickly withdrawing. Shaking his head, he pulled her hand back to where it had been, laid over his heart.

“Sensitive, is all,” he explained, absent mindedly running his thumb along the side of her hand. For a moment they stayed like that, her looking at his scars and him watching her look, until Theon’s abrupt shiver brought them back.

Sansa made quick work of removing his boots, then the brace he wore to support his bad foot, while he removed and set aside his shirt. As he went to unlace his breeches he paused, suddenly aware that she was still fully clothed while he was nearly nude. Despite Sansa being quite familiar with his mutilation, he still had difficulty baring himself, especially in a well-lit, semi-public place such as this. Theon instead reached for her, his hands twitching.

“May I?” She answered him by rising to her feet, graceful as ever, and turning so he had access to the lacings along her back, sweeping her beautiful long hair out of the way. He gently undid her bodice, then helped her remove her tunic and stockings. Once she was down to her chemise, she turned back around and drew him up to standing. For some reason, now that they were both in their underthings, removing that final piece of clothing seemed easier. If the slight tremor in her fingers as they slipped the chemise off her pale shoulders was any indication, Sansa felt the same. 

Without the burn of lust pushing them forward, it was harder to ignore how self-conscious both felt about their nude forms. Amidst the steam of the hot spring, with the knowledge that Ser Brienne of Tarth herself guarded them, it became easier to let some of that anxiety go and simply revel in their shared vulnerability. They could just be Sansa and Theon, scars on display but not representative of them as a whole.

“Well then,” Sansa tutted, breaking the spell. “Time for a soak, I think.” She shooed him on ahead, while she searched the nearby cupboard that was always kept stocked with fragrant bath oils and lotions. The hot springs themselves had carved stairs so even the elderly and infirm could benefit from the warm waters, and the low bench cut into the sides of the pool made for a nice resting spot. Theon sighed as the warmth seeped into his broken joints and eased some of the pressure in his chest. In water, all of his physical ailments seemed to disappear, and he almost felt whole.

Sansa soon joined him, taking less care to ease herself into the water. Holding her nose, she quickly dunked her whole head underwater before emerging with water streaming down her face. Her long hair swirled in the water around her shoulders, making her seem like one of the legendary mermaids his ancestor took to wife. Drifting closer to her, Theon reached out and twirled a floating lock of hair around his finger. If he stretched, his feet just barely skimmed the pool bottom; Sansa, with her almost an inch on him in height, could probably stand on tiptoe, though at the moment she seemed content to let the water hold her aloft.

“You may be a wolf,” he mused. “But right now, you seem like a proper trout.” She smiled at that and let her head lean back, buoyed by the water.

“Oh? Are my scales showing?”

“Hmm,” Theon twisted his lips as if in deep contemplation. “Not from where I’m sitting, milady. Perhaps I should look closer-” Sansa scoffed and smacked her palm across the water, sending a light splash his way. Not one to be easily deterred, Theon nimbly avoided the attack and darted in to run teasing fingers along her collarbone and down her sides.

“I wonder what color your scales would be. Stark grey? Tully blue? Ah, maybe red to match your hair!”

Sansa shook her head at each of his guesses and hummed thoughtfully. 

“Purple,” she declared. “A mix of pale lilac and the deepest violet of a sunset.” Theon was surprised at the choice, as much of her wardrobe favored more neutral tones; this was both to demonstrate her position as the Stark in Winterfell, and because she didn’t want to divert resources needed for rebuilding the North.

“I had most of my dresses in King’s Landing made with purple fabric,” Sansa explained. “I couldn’t wear my family colors, so I made purple into my own. Wearing it felt like armor.”

“I understand. That’s why I was always so determined to display my sigil as a boy.” The moment the words left his mouth Theon wished he could stuff them back in. The existence of this unfortunate parallel had not escaped either of them, yet so far neither had been willing to broach the subject. 

Theon would never presume to compare their experiences as hostages, knowing that the threat Sansa had faced from the Lannisters had been far greater and more blatant. But that was the crux of Theon’s lifelong struggle, was it not? _What do you do when you love your captors?_ Sansa had loved Cersei herself, once, before the lion queen revealed her true colors.

Theon’s discomfort at the route their conversation had taken must have been apparent on his face, as Sansa’s expression echoed his feelings.

“Theon, I-” she began, but he cut her off with a shake of his head.

“I don’t want to talk about it now, Sans,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “Someday, I do want to have that conversation, but I just can’t right now.” He shrugged helplessly, vainly hoping that the gesture could convey all the mixed-up feelings that came along with the topic. Sansa still seemed a little distressed; it was never her preference to let important conversations lie dormant, yet she respected him enough not to press the issue.

Always the skilled deflector, Theon returned to an earlier, safer point in their conversation and resumed his light petting along her shoulders.

“You should wear purple more often, if you like it so much. It’d go wonderfully with your hair.” Her face flushed, a combination of the heat of the water and his compliment.

“Purple cloth is so expensive, a dress of it would be too extravagant. I can’t justify it, not while the smallfolk still need so much help regaining their footing.” Always the dutiful leader, his lady was.

“It doesn’t have to be a full gown, something small would suffice,” he countered. “Perhaps some ribbons, or a scarf. Maybe even something hidden, like stockings.” It was the last one that piqued her interest; something about the idea of walking or crossing her shins and feeling the drag of a beautiful pair of violet stockings across her skin; knowing that this little joy was hers to keep secret, or share with someone special. Her stomach clenched and a little jolt of pleasure shot through her belly at the thought of Theon slowly peeling said garments off of her, stripping her of her armor in a quest to please her.

Theon didn’t let her reaction skate by, and his smile turned from sweet to positively sinful. His touches shifted from aimless to deliberate, slipping under the water to stroke the delicate skin under her breasts.

“Purple stockings, then. I think that’s what I’ll gift you for your name-day,” he leaned in to whisper like this was some secret in danger of being overheard. “You can wear them during your queenly meetings, and think of me between your thighs.”

Sansa groaned, the sound issuing from far back in her throat, and put her previously unoccupied hands to good use pulling his pelvis flush against hers. Theon laughed at her eagerness.

“ _Milady_ , I always knew women loved their finery, but this is something else-”

“Shut up, Greyjoy.” Sansa growled, and pressed their bodies together as much as she could, starting from groin and ending at lips.

In the heat of the moment, both of them forgot that they were treading water and weren’t exactly in the best position to be doing this sort of thing. Their ankles knocked together clumsily, and Sansa had to relinquish her grip on Theon’s hips in order to keep her head above water. Strong swimmer that he was, Theon didn’t have the same problem, and with one hand still wrapped around her waist he leisurely kicked them both over to the inset bench.

Once they were settled, Theon was intent on kissing her again, but Sansa pushed him back to better observe him.

“Wait now, we came down here to help you feel better,” she reproached.

“I promise you, Sansa, this is making me feel better!” She allowed herself a quick laugh at that, but didn’t let him derail her thought.

“I assured Maester Wolkan that I’d make you listen to his instructions, the foremost of which was to rest and avoid strenuous activities.” It would have been easier to follow through on this if her breasts weren’t close enough to brush his shoulder.

“ _Sansa,_ ” Theon whined, not feeling at all embarrassed for doing so; he was sick, after all, he was allowed to whine a little.

“ _Theon,_ ” she mimicked back. “Just sit back, will you, let me take care of you.”

With her hands braced on the edge of the pool, Sansa pulled herself out to reach the bath supplies she had brought out earlier; supplies which were barely an arm’s length away and certainly didn’t require her to lift her entire torso out, allowing water to drip tantalizingly down her curves. 

“You are a horrible tease,” he groaned.

“Really?” she asked innocently, taking far longer than necessary to inspect the scented bath oil. “I thought I’d gotten rather good at it.”

Gods be good, this woman was a menace. He longed to reach out for the swell of her buttocks, but before he could Sansa settled back in the pool, as if she had a sixth sense devoted just to toying with him. All those complaints were quickly chased away, however, when she pressed him back against the ledge wall and straddled his lap.

“You’ll keep your hands to yourself, now,” she chided, and glared at him until he relented and draped his arms along the pool rim. Once she was satisfied that he wouldn’t try to interrupt, she unstopped the bottle of oil, slicked her hands up, and began massaging the tops of his shoulders.

Sansa approached this task with the same level of detail which she attended everything, kneading the muscles with her whole palm and occasionally her knuckles. She was meticulous, ensuring that each area was thoroughly worked before moving onto the next. Theon had to exercise an extraordinary amount of willpower to keep his hands where they were, a fact which he hoped she appreciated; as it was, when she dug her thumb into a particularly tight knot in his bicep, he couldn’t keep his hips from bucking up into her heat. She responded by holding him in place with a firm squeeze of her thighs on either side of his.

If her plan was to both relax him and sexually frustrate him, it was a complete success. He groaned out her name and she smirked.

“Patience, my love,” she said, even as her hands drifted down his chest, carding through the dusting of hair for a moment, thumbing his nipple just to make him shiver, then letting her fingertips skate along his ribs before coming to rest on his lower abdomen. One finger slowly traced around his navel, dipping just barely low enough to brush the top of his pubis. “Is this alright?” she murmured, as if her intentions weren’t already crystal clear.

“Sansa Stark, I swear by both the old gods and the new, if you don’t put your fingers in me- _oh!_ ” He trailed off, a strangled moan in his throat as she cupped her hand over his stub and rubbed her fingers where his stones had been. 

This time when his legs fought to part, she let them, resettling herself farther down his thighs so she had better access. With her free hand braced against his hip, she dragged her fingers along the skin between his entrance and his prick, pausing to curl her fingers up and work them in tight little circles. 

Right when Sansa had him gasping for her, she broke away to re-slick her fingers; _two could play at this game_ , he thought, surging up to kiss her neck. Typically, he would draw this out, with little nips and the rub of his stubble along her neck, but this time Theon went straight for the prize, finding the juncture where her ear and jaw met, and sucked hard. She gasped and squirmed on his lap, but he kept with it, pausing only to lave his tongue over that spot. When he increased his ministrations and allowed his teeth to graze her flesh, she moaned and went taut as a bowstring, her hands flying to his shoulders for purchase.

“I thought I told you not to move,” she managed to scold in between gasps. He paused to blow a little cool air along the damp skin, making her shiver.

“You said to keep my hands still; I think you’ll find that I have.” He sensed rather than saw her roll her eyes in response, his nose still tucked under her chin. Either Brienne had rubbed off on her more than anyone would have guessed, or Theon was just talented.

“Fine,” she groused. “Put your hands to good use, and I’ll do the same with mine.” Sansa had barely finished speaking before his hands flew to her waist, migrating to cup her behind before bringing his fingers in to stroke along her outer lips. 

Meanwhile, she made sure her fingers were still slippery with oil and brought her hand back in between them. With the help of the warm water loosening him up and the slick oil easing the way, she pressed one finger into him and followed it quickly with a second. Her fingers rubbed against his inner walls, so smooth like her own, searching for that spot. She knew when she found it not only by the sudden change in texture against her fingertips, but also by the way touching it caused his hips to buck up.

As Sansa worked on him, Theon maneuvered his own hand behind her, making up for the somewhat awkward angle with enthusiastic strokes to her pearl. He rubbed tight little circles with his index and middle fingers, and slipped his thumb just barely into her quim to press against her pearl from the inside. Evidently he was doing something right, because the move made Sansa pant and shift her leg up so his forearm could slip under her thigh and provide his fingers with better access.

Their position properly adjusted, Theon could now bring his free hand up to her breast and thumb the nipple there. Her nipples were already peaked from the cool air, but his touch brought them to full hardness. Sansa had to keep her other hand on his shoulder for balance, but she increased the intensity with which she stroked that spot inside him as if to make up for it, and he sped up his own touches to match her pace. They moved in tandem, trading furious kisses between panted breaths.

In his prior sexual encounters, Theon’s sole focus had always been his own pleasure over the woman’s, to the point where he spent very little effort if any on bringing them over the edge. Now, though, he was well schooled in the art of making Sansa come, and had become to consider himself something of an expert on it. He could tell that she was close by the rhythmic clenching of her walls around his finger, and the way that her gasps became higher pitched and stuttered.

Sure enough, he soon felt the tell-tale quiver of her thighs that signaled she was close, and his fingers nimbly worked her up to her peak and over the edge. A full body shudder ran through her as she came, and then she slumped boneless against him, as best she could with her hand still in between them. While she burrowed her face in his shoulder and caught her breath, Theon brought his hands to swoop along her back. He loved to watch her like this, almost as much as he liked the act that brought it about; he felt the soft flutter of her eyelashes against his skin and the warm puff of her breath, the way that her wet hair clung to his arm like seaweed, and almost forgot that her fingers were still inside him.

Sansa, however, hadn’t forgotten, and while her own excitement had caused her fingers to stall, once she got her breath back she immediately picked back up. When their relationship had first moved from shy touches to more intensive ones, Sansa had been at a loss as to how to give him pleasure, and frankly Theon had been just as clueless. Since then, with the help of some secretive research and much practice, she’d learned how to work around the challenge and make the experience enjoyable for the both of them. Theon didn’t experience pleasure in the same way he once had, and sometimes Sansa wondered what their coupling would have been like if he’d never been mutilated; but there was little point in speculating, and what they had was good. Not only that, it was _theirs_.

As her fingers picked up their pace, Theon moaned, and his hips rolled to match her thrusts. In retaliation for exploiting that sensitive spot on her neck, Sansa kissed her way down his throat and chest. She laved his nipple with her tongue, then took it between her teeth and nipped it as she slid a third finger inside him and pressed up on his taint with the pad of her thumb. He gasped sharply, then came with a shudder, his thighs spasming with the effort of it. She felt that little spurt of warmth on her wrist, and kept working him with her fingers until he slumped back against the ledge.

Once he was done, Sansa slipped her fingers free and hung her arms over his shoulders, stretching languidly. Theon’s fingers twitched sporadically against her hips as his breathing evened out.

“Somehow I doubt this was what the maester had in mind when he told you to make sure I rested.” Sansa shrugged, looking enormously pleased with herself.

“It was implied.”

“Then he deserves a promotion,” he brushed his nose against hers, and they shared a brief kiss, much more tender than their most recent kisses. “I think your plan worked too well, I’m so relaxed. Brienne might have to carry me.”

“She’s more than capable, as your attempt to drill with her showed,” Sansa joked, and shifted so both her legs were now draped over one of his with her butt across his thighs, taking the pressure off her knees. “We’ll go to my solar, it’s closer; I’ll have food brought there and you can rest while I finish those accounts.”

Sansa then tucked her head under his chin and let out a deep, contented sigh. Theon wrapped his arms more securely around her back, and as he watched a droplet of either water or sweat roll down her temple, he felt his chest tighten, in a way that had nothing to do with the cough.

“I wish I could marry you.” The words were out of his mouth before the thought had fully formed, and their previous relaxation vanished in surprise at his declaration. Sansa pulled her head away, her expression a mixture of shock and sadness. Theon immediately prepared to apologize, but realized that he was unwilling to; he might have regretted blurting it out so inelegantly, but now that he’d said it he had never felt surer of anything else.

“Theon-” she started, but he shook his head, needing to say his piece.

“I understand why you need to remain unmarried, for the sake of your position and for the North, and I respect you too much to ask you to endanger either. But in my heart, at least, I would like to call you my wife.” He waited nervously for a response, aware that this bumbling proposal was nothing in comparison with the marriage proposals a woman of her status deserved.

But whether it was fitting her station or not didn’t matter, as a beaming smile grew across her face.

“Alright then,” she whispered, still a little in shock. “Yes. I’ll be your wife, and you my husband. I am yours, and you are mine.” Stunned, it took a moment for him to process her words.

“I am yours, and you are mine,” he repeated, a matching grin taking shape. “Til the end of my days, Sansa Stark.” This time when they kissed, it was no less tender, but far more significant, and tinged with the salt of joyful tears.

**Author's Note:**

> I very much see Sansa as a Queen Elizabeth figure, but I'm also a sucker for weddings... this is my compromise!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at gingersprites, hit me up there for more of my bullshit.


End file.
